Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/290373.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Jake_English/Dave_Strider, John_Egbert/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Jake_English, Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Sadstuck, First_Time, Alpha_Timeline
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-08 Words: 4008
****** Stronger and Stranger ******
by Blue_Thallium_(orphan_account)
Summary
     The main difference between Jake and John, you think, is that you
     cannot argue with Jake’s existence. Jake sits before you, bouncing a
     little on the couch while Bro throws an Xbox remote in his lap, while
     John floats somewhere in the back of your mind, half a dream and even
     less a memory; if he is a memory at all.
Notes
     Inspired by this_gorgeous_drawing (NSFW) by Kilehye on tumblr.
When your brother is fifteen, he asks you if he can have a friend over. You’ve
always told him his friends were welcome any time – even the one who threw up
on your sofa. Especially the one who bakes.
But this wasn’t either of the girls. This was Jake, someone you’d only ever
heard about. Apparently he lived alone on an island, and you’d called bullshit
instantly. Your little Bro, however, was determined to believe him, and you
wondered if it might be true after all. That cynical little fuck wouldn’t even
believe in Santa.
Jake is a big fan of your movies, apparently (already, you are questioning the
boy’s taste) and your Bro wants your credit card so he can get him a private
jet. You shrug. You guess you’ll have to, if there aren’t any airports where he
lives.
What Bro doesn’t tell you is that Jake will be staying over during school. At
least, he doesn’t tell you till he has the fucking flight booked and paid for,
with some insane deposit – the kind you can easily afford, but high enough that
it still makes your heart drop in your chest. You still hadn’t gotten used to
the money.
You call your brother’s school, and ask if he can have a friend tag along in
his classes for a couple of weeks. You get a snort and a flat out “No”. Snotty
bastards won’t be getting any donations from you this year.
So your Bro disappears to the airport one Saturday morning (the earliest you’ve
seen him conscious at the weekend since he was about eight) and you wonder if
you should work on the new script, or just be a useless piece of shit all day
and play some video games.
You plum for the latter.
You don’t clean up yet. There is something so deliciously ironic about sitting
alone in a penthouse in a stained wife beater and tatty boxers, drinking a can
of bargain cola, and playing a Tony Hawke game on a PS1.
You can take the boy out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of
the boy. You scratch your beard. You might shave.
The weather is pretty foul today, and when you go to walk to your bathroom, you
linger by the huge window in your living room and admire the spectacular view –
marred only by the rain splattering against it.
The tall trees in the road a street away are whipping back and forth violently,
and you press your fingers to the glass.
“What’s wrong, John?” You ask. The wind whips, changes direction, and briefly
the rain lashes against your window. “Fine.” You say. “Be that way.”
*
You didn’t shave, you just pissed and had a quick shower. You changed into a
cleaner wife beater and pyjama bottoms, at least making yourself half decent
for Bro’s little friend. You check your watch, and Dave said something about
them being due back at around Six that evening, which wasn’t for… six hours
yet.
You decide to take the chance to get a little work done, and the rain outside
peters off.
This thing is kind of your Magnus Opus. If this is as good as you hope it is,
and with your reputation, you think you might have the next Star Wars on your
hands.
“Kids and Fun” is your working title. It’s the story of Jack, Jodi, Ruby, Dean
and the game they play on Jack’s birthday.
The first movie is drafted, and you’re just starting the process of redrafting.
It’s a piece of shit right now, but it’ll get there.
*
You hear Bro stumble back in at Seven, him using that low, Texan rumble he
copied shamelessly from you. A too-deep, squeaky teenaged boy sort of voice
replies to his, though you can’t work out what exactly they’re saying.
Sighing, you grab a sweater and your shades before you leave the study, and
greet your Brother and his guest.
He stands a handful of inches shorter than you, and an inch or too over Bro,
with a mop of black hair, old looking glasses. His eyes are round and a muddy
green, his lips are pink and plump and behind them a pair of pearly buck teeth
are visible. He is handsome you suppose, especially for his age, he looks older
in comparison to your decidedly weedy looking Bro, who was only now just
warding off the last of his acne, and beginning to fill out a little.
When Jake smiles, your throat goes dry, and it’s like those blurry, dreamy
images of John have come into focus and grown. John shed of his puppy fat, John
after a good stint outdoors; John, weather beaten, stripped of his big, blue
doe eyes, and his teeny, tiny button nose.
Not John. But almost. All you have to do is squint a little.
Jake, you notice, is looking rather Star Struck. He’s tripping over his words
and Bro punches him on the arm and calls him lame.
“Bro said you were a fan.” You say, and extend your hand for him to shake. He
looks like you’ve just offered him the secret to eternal youth when you do, and
he takes it, and shakes it vigorously. Grinning like a maniac, he turns bright
red, and begins to gush.
“Mr Strider, sir, you haven’t a clue how much I love your movies! ” You stand
there, and nod politely, while he goes and on and Bro looks like he could kick
his friend in the teeth. Jake sounds like John, minus an octave, plus a strange
English twang to his voice, and a too-fast clipped speech pattern that reminds
you of old movies.
Really, he hardly sounds like John at all.
They got hamburgers on the way home (an experience which Jake delivers another
monologue on) and you find out Jake has never been to the city before, or the
mainland of the USA at all. Again, you smile and nod, your brain picking out
all the ways he’s different and exactly the same to John. The main difference,
you think, is that you cannot argue with Jake’s existence. Jake sits before
you, bouncing a little on the couch while Bro throws an Xbox remote in his lap,
while John floats somewhere in the back of your mind, half a dream and even
less a memory; if he is a memory at all.
You go to your rooms (study, ensuite and bedroom) at nine, and Bro looks
relieved. You hear him telling Jake that he needs to “Simmer the fuck down” as
you walk away.
*
Jake has been here for a whole week and making no signs of an impending exit.
This is the Monday Bro goes back to school. You wake up at eight to see him
out, and you find Jake in your kitchen making breakfast for the three of you –
apparently he’s pretty much self-sufficient.
When you ask what you’re having, he says “Seagull” and he tells you to watch
out for the bullets.
*
It’s either Thursday or Wednesday (you lose track of the days when you’re not
working properly) and Jake has been spending much of his time hiding in Bro’s
room with various games consoles, or watching you work.
You don’t think he realises you can see him, and to be honest, it’s very off
putting. His reflection twitching in the window, while the wind floats a
plastic bag across your view. You sigh.
“Can I help you there, Jake?” You ask, with a tiny smile. He jumps with fright,
and shakes his head. But instead of scuttling away, bold as brass, he stuffs
his hands in the pockets of his shorts (in the middle of January, he is wearing
shorts) and saunters over to where you’re working.
“Is that a new movie?” He asks.
“Sort of.” You hit save, and close the lid of your laptop.
“What’s it about?” He asks, mouth falling a little slack.
“It’s a secret.” You say.
“Huh.” His eyes go wide and he gnaws his lip. The kind of reaction to ‘it’s a
secret’ you might expect from a five year old. He clears his throat.
“M- Mr Strider, old, old uh chap, sir, would you mind awfully if I asked you
something?”
“Go ahead.” You shrug.
“When… When you were on Jay Leno in 2007, you said that you, uh, you said that
Christian Bale was a delight to work with. But then you shook your head. But
then you started laughing. And I could never tell if you were pulling our legs
or not.”
“You’re asking me if Bale is a dick or not.”
He nods vigorously. “Yeah!”
“He’s not too bad. Kind of a dick. He tried to punch me because I stuck this
fucking ’kick me’ sign to his back, though.”
“Wow!” The wow is drawn out, childish, and you pat the space on the sofa next
to you. “Then what? Did you have a scrap? A bit of a fisticuffs?” He asks, as
he sits down, looking like the cat that got the cream.
“Nah. I had him in headlock in seconds, man. He called quits.” Jake lets out
this excited little gasp, and you can’t help but feel smug. You’re showing off
to a boy young enough to be your son, and that plastic bag outside is now
pinned to your window.
“Wanna hear a story about Natalie Portman?” You ask him, with a smirk.
“Do I ever!”
*
Bro gets called off to some two night field trip he forgot about, and, even
after you try to bribe the school, Jake simply cannot come.
You’re pretty sure the kid doesn’t even exist on paper.
You’re pretty sure, in the softer light of the evening, certainly when you
squint, that he could easily be John’s older brother.
You’re pretty sure he’d do anything you asked.
You order pizza for the two of you, and apologise profusely for Bro’s
forgetfulness. He doesn’t mind, he says.
He’d a little more comfortable around you now, always asking for stories and
tips, before he confesses to you that he’s been writing a script. He has been
for months.
It’s about a kid who goes tomb raiding with his Nana, then they get separated
and he has to find her. He befriends a race of subterranean blue aliens, and
they send a pretty village girl to help him.
It’s a blatant self-insert, but the idea is solid enough, and when he goes into
a little more detail about the characters, you think it could shape up to be a
really sweet story if he pitches his dialogue right.
“Do you think… I mean, if you’ve got time, you could read it?” He asks,
blushing, and stuffing a slice of pizza into his mouth immediately afterward,
as if it might absorb the words from his lips. He looks like he can’t believe
he just asked you that. His face is an open book.
You shrug and you smile, with your pretty bleached teeth. You’ve never tried so
hard to be Hollywood before. You scratch your stubble, and move in on him. His
eyes grow wide.
“Sure.” You say. “Just print it off for me before you go, I’ll email you.”
Jake swallows his Pizza, and it’s clearly like twenty Christmases come early
all at once for him. His eyes go big (almost big enough) and wide behind his
glasses and his teeth peek out from under his lips.
Your hand is on his thigh, and his breath shakes.
“Mr Strider, I…” He clears his throat. “Thank you… You’re just… Terrific, Sir.
You really are. But I’m not so sure we should…”
He tails off when you shush him.
You take off your shades, and his eyes are already half shut, and his tongue is
darting over his frankly presumptuous bottom lip.
You kiss him. Gently at first, delicately, then, when he tries to take control,
but he does it in a sloppy, teenage boy sort of way, you pull away from him,
and tell him to let you do the work here. He nods. You bite his lip, almost
like a punishment, then kiss gently, a lot of lip, a little teeth.
You should tell him to get a pen.
You slide your tongue into his mouth, and your hand into his hair, and when you
lean in and smell that earthy, fresh smell that seems to follow him round, you
pretend you’re smelling clean laundry and fresh air. You pretend he’s about
four inches shorter and a lot lighter when you stand, and take him with you.
You pull him by the shirt collar, and he moans, soft and breathy, against your
lips.
You’re pulling him, worrying you’re being too rough till he sort of… squeaks,
and bites down on your lip. You fist his hair, and practically fuck his mouth
with your tongue, just so he knows your intentions are clear. He’s moaning out
loud again, and his cock is hard already and digging into your hip. Oh to be
that young again. You have him down the long hall, pressed against your bedroom
door, and he wraps his leg round your back, rutting against your thigh. You try
to dislodge him, but he misses the hint. You nip his neck.
“You can either let me into my room, or you can stand here and hump my leg like
a twelve year old.” You tell him. You make sure it’s husky, half whispered and
full of promise rather than the cutting jibe it could have been.
He answers with a nod, and a shudder, and you feel his leg slide away. He steps
behind you, and allows you to let yourself in.
You beckon him, but he lingers, stood in the hall, clad in tented shorts and a
t-shirt, socks pulled half way up his hairy, solid calves. It seems that every
patch of exposed skin has turned red, and he tugs at his collar before
shuffling into you room. The door closes itself behind him.
His stance is childish, shy, reeks of eagerness and the confident walk he
attempts when he goes to sit on your bed is just a little sad, and completely
perfect.
You take off your shirt, and kneel on the floor in front of him. He looks you
up and down, entirely unsubtle, and actually swallows and licks his lips. You
wonder if you should be flexing for him, or something. You slip your fingers
under his shirt and ruck it up, and he finishes the job off for you. His
nipples are pink, and perked, and there are a few hairs springing up on his
chest, which is flat, and toned.
All together much more developed looking than the torso you had in mind for
him, but when he looks at you with those round, desperate eyes, and chews that
pretty pink lip with those pearly buck teeth, you can easily let it go.
You run your hand up his chest, and you rub his shoulder, soothing, the way you
might rub Bro’s shoulder if he’s had a bad day at school. He swallows, and his
skin is on fire. You start on his shorts, unbuckling his ornate belt, and
telling him to lie back and lift his hips so you can pull them down. He spread
his legs wide and eager, and brushes this funny, tender hand through your hair.
You smile at him, brush your knuckles against the bulge straining his underwear
(he has not yet graduated to boxers yet) and hook your fingers into the
waistband. A little damp spot is forming, and he wriggles into your touch.
“I’d get a better angle if you stood up.” You tell him. And he’s on his feet in
seconds.
The briefs are gone in one smooth tug. He’s naked, apart from his socks (you
make a conscious decision to leave those on) and his glasses (those too), and
he folds his arms over his chest. Then he doesn’t. He looks down at you, and if
you’re not mistaken, his hips cant impatiently. You lick a stripe up his cock,
and brush your fingers through his wiry/soft pubic hair. He makes a very
unmanly sound, which embarrasses even him.
You kiss Jake’s cock, and roll down his foreskin till the head is exposed. Then
you suck it. Hard. And with little warning. He moans, unabashed again, though
the sound is far too low, and far to wrong. You push two fingers into his
mouth, and roll his balls in your other hand. You work your tongue against the
shaft, sucking as you do, and he hums around your fingers, rubbing his tongue
around them eagerly.
The hand not currently muffling his voice, reaches around and grabs his ass,
getting a palm full of the soft, tight flesh. He shoves his hips a little too
hard, and his cock slips down your throat. You cough, and gag, and have to pull
away before you choke to death. He gives a pathetic moan of protest, and there
aren’t any fingers to block it out.
Realisation hits him when you frown a little. “Oh. Oh Gosh, Mr Strider, I’m so
sorry!”
“Call me Dave.” You tell him, and he nods. “This… is your first time right?”
You ask. And he nods again.
“I don’t mind.” He says, coy all of a sudden. “I’ve always thought you were so
terrific. And I never imagined -” He lets out a shaky breath. “I never even
imagined I’d meet you Mr Str- Dave.”
Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself collecting lube from your top drawer, and a
condom, which you set within arm’s length on the bed. When you stand up, your
knees crack, and that catches Jake’s attention. You press the growing bulge in
your jeans against his bare hip.
You brush your lips against the shell of his ear, and drawl “So how’s about you
turn around for me.” You feel his jaw quiver.
“Can’t we. On the bed, or. Face to face?” He whispers.
“It’ll be easier this way, trust me.” You press a kiss to his temple and as you
lean over for the tube of lube, Jake turns over and braces his hands on the
bed. You rub the bulge in your jeans with an open palm. His back is nowhere
near as tan as his chest, and his shoulders are just narrow enough. The hair is
just right at the back, and almost how you’d always imagined it would be.
You hold the lube between your teeth, and rid yourself of your jeans and your
boxers. You slick up your fingers quickly and messily, and when your press your
index figure to his hole, Jake gives this tiny, girlish whimper that you revel
in. You work the finger inside, and you’re shocked by how quickly he relaxes.
Maybe he’s done this before at home.
By the time you’ve worked in your second finger, he’s hardly moaning at all,
and his erection has wilted a little. Yours, however, is beginning to make you
a little uncomfortable. You don’t want to hurt him – but you’re a little too
quick with that third finger, and clenches around you, moaning uncomfortably.
You rub soothing circles on his back, and work your fingers into him gently.
You reach around and jerk him off, finding him growing hard in your palm again.
A little longer, and he’s moaning softly again, rocking back on your fingers
just a little.
“Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” You ask.
“Sometimes-” a sharp intake of breath, “When I’m by myself. I use my fingers.”
Your dick jumps at the image you create. Blue pyjamas lying abandoned by a bed
in a heavily graffitied bedroom, a boy who is like Jake, but who certainly
isn’t, and you don’t even have to squint.
You warn him you’re about to swap your fingers for your cock, and he nods.
“Righty oh.” He says, oddly chipper, slightly forced.
You draw your fingers out of him slowly, then reach for your condom. You roll
it over your cock and slick yourself with a lot more lube than you’d usually
use.
You position yourself behind him, and you’re shocked by how easily you slide
in, and by the way Jake moans high and loud, fisting your sheets, his spine
curling.
You don’t move at first. You work yourself all the way in and he sags back
against you, resting some of his weight on your thigh. He rolls his shoulders,
and you try to push him down a little, so it’s just that mop of black hair, and
that light expanse of back in your eye line.
You thrust tentatively, and he groans encouragingly. You go a little harder,
probably too quickly, and too deeply, and he squeaks your name.
“Say it again.” You tell him, giving your hips a shallow pump. You must hit his
prostate, he keens and whines dramatically.
“D- Dave.” He stutters, and you thrust there again before you go deeper. “Oh!”
He sounds more shocked than aroused, but you take it as a good sign. “Oh Dave…
please.” He says. You’re trying to avoid pounding into him, but you feel like
you’re fighting a losing battle, when your hips seem to snap forward of your
own accord. As if reading your mind, his voice is almost boyish as he moans
your name, and when he keens, his back looks far narrower than it does when
it’s flat.
“Frig, Dave, yes.” He hisses the S, and when you reach around, and work his
cock, he makes a noise that’s almost a sob, and whines your name like a child.
“Dave.”
“Fuck...” You grunt, and he goes a little rigid beneath you, then a little
limp. You pump his cock in time with your own thrusts, as you’re trying to
burry yourself as deeply as you can in his hot, tight entrance.
He clams up for a moment, but you make him damn near scream when he comes,
spattering your hand and the comforter. He goes totally limp beneath you,
flopping forward, and continuing to moan weakly as you finish up. You garble
something, barely thinking and you pull out of him just before you tip over the
edge. Strip yourself of the condom, and pump your fist a few times, before all
the tension snaps out of your muscles, and your come lands on his pink, used
looking ass.
You don’t collapse onto him, but your knees give way and you have to hold your
arms out to stop yourself from squashing him.
He’s silent. You grab a towel from the linen closet and clean him off, and he
yelps with surprise when you scoop him up into your arms (granted, with
difficulty) and pull back the covers, you place him in bed, and remove his
glasses for him.
He looks… upset. Ashamed with himself. And as you snap the light off and climb
into bed next to him, he clears his throat and asks:
“Who’s John?” Something like a cold trickle of water runs down your back.
You reach for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter on your bedside table. You
feel a little sick.
“Hmm?” You say. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
“No. Go ahead.” He mumbles. “Just. Before, I’m sure you said John.”
“You probably misheard me.” You said, and when you reach over to stoke his
hair, he recoils from your touch.
“Okay.”
You light your cigarette. You take a long, long drag and your stomach churns.
“We’ll take a look at your script tomorrow, if you like.”
“No.” He says. “No, it’s okay.”
“The offer’s there.”
“Thank you.” And you’ll be damned if he didn’t sound close to tears. He wiggles
down under the covers, and he looks so fucking young and hurt.
You hide your face in your hands.
The weather outside is foul sounding again, and the wind howls dangerously.
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